by Dee Brice
“That’s even worse. Maybe you don’t have a problem in England, but in the United States—”
He kissed her again. This time she stayed quiet, except for her sighs, which mingled with his until they sang with one voice.
The soft burr of the limousine telephone announced a call from their chauffeur. By then Damian was beyond caring about gymnastics. If he had to stand on his head to make love to her he would.
“Ian,” Tiffany murmured against his lips, “the phone.”
“To hell with the phone.”
“It might be Nick.”
He knew it was not, but her concern for his assistant was like a bucket of ice water over Damian’s head. Growling, he sat up and snatched the receiver from its cradle, then smashed it back.
“Was it Nick? Is he all right? Where—?”
“We are almost at the hotel. You might want to neaten yourself.”
TC gasped at Ian’s icy tone. Climbing off his lap, she flung herself into the rear-facing seat and fastened the buttons on her blouse. With trembling hands she smoothed wisps of hair off her face and belatedly wished she had kneed the jerk. That would have paid him back for the pain she felt around her heart.
“I am sorry I snapped at you.”
He looked grateful he had an excuse to pull away from her. Maybe he was afraid his cock and his conscience would wage another battle—one he couldn’t decide which would win. But they were consenting adults and could have sex whenever they wanted. If he wasn’t a cop, why should his conscience bother him?
“Are you?” TC said, resolutely fastening her gaze on the passing scenery. “You’ve been doing it a lot lately—between rescues.”
“You were not in any danger today,” Ian admitted, sounding sheepish.
“I know that. I knew it before I started down. But when I stopped moving, I—um—panicked.” Looking down at her hand, she twisted her new emerald ring and wondered aloud, “Why did you buy this for me?”
“I did not buy it. The mine superintendent gave it to you for bravery. Apparently you are the first woman who has ever attempted to go down that shaft.”
“Really?” She looked at him and saw nothing but mischief in his eyes. “Okay, Ian, let me have the rest of the joke.”
“And come up clean. How do you do that? Except for a smudge on your cheek, you did not have a speck of dirt on you.”
“Dirt repellant. Every morning I spray my clothes with it. Now you know all my secrets.”
“Not by half,” he muttered, exiting the limo, then holding out his hand to her.
She took it and felt the familiar tingle his touch always brought. She should stay at a safer distance, she told herself, but let him keep her hand while they crossed the wide, elegant lobby of the Hotel Royal Bogotá.
Prepared to surrender her passport, TC opened her handbag, but Ian’s kiss forestalled her.
“Darling, you know I have yours with mine.” With that he produced twin folders bound in British racing green. He handed them to the clerk, then turned to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “You will have to trust me on this,” he muttered in a low voice, his dark eyes willing her not to make a scene.
“I suppose I must,” she murmured and received a kiss full of jubilant relief that left her ears buzzing. That buzzing surely accounted for her hearing the clerk say, “Escort Señor y Señora Soria to the bridal suite.”
“Ian?”
He kissed her again, whispering, “I will explain everything once we are upstairs. Right now, we need to get out of sight. Understand?”
“No.” But she let him tuck her hand into the crook of his arm and lead her into the elevator that whisked them to the top floor.
They ascended in silence, Ian’s grip on her hand cautioning her to stay quiet. The bellman opened the doors to their suite with a flourish. Ian swept her into his arms and carried her across the threshold.
“Try to look excited, Tiffany darling,” Ian whispered in her ear and spun them around until TC felt dizzy. “As if we are on our honeymoon.”
“Oh, Ian, darling,” she squealed, her mouth close to his ear, “this is so beautiful.” He flinched, maintained his balance long enough to stagger across the room, then dumped her in an ignominious heap on the couch. “Is my sugar buns angry with his snookums?”
“Sugar buns wants to talk to snookums, as soon as sugar buns gets rid of the nosy guy who is going through our luggage in the bedroom.”
“Didn’t you lock your suitcase?”
“No.” He kissed her briefly, then went to the partially closed bedroom doors.
Easing off her shoes, she tiptoed across the thick carpet to peer over Ian’s shoulder. She couldn’t see a thing, but heeded his gesture to stay quiet. She did, however, reach around him to nudge the door open a little wider.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said, holding her hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles.
Flushing under his tan, Ian whirled and stalked her across the suite.
Falling backward onto the couch, TC burst out laughing. When the bellman flashed her a puzzled look along with a toothy grin, she buried her face in a throw pillow.
While Ian shoved a tip into the bellman’s hand and escorted him to the door, TC made her way back to the bedroom. Shoving the doors open wide, she gave full voice to her laughter.
“It is not that funny,” Ian groused from behind her.
“It’s hysterical and incredibly sweet. Look, Ian,” she went on, taking his hand and pulling him along in her wake. “See how he’s nipped in the waist on the pajama top, just as if I was wearing it. And look at how he’s arranged the bottoms so that you’re on your side, snuggling up to me.”
“I do not wear pajamas. Especially not pink ones.” He looked indignant that anyone—especially another man—would think him such a sissy.
“Our bellman didn’t know that. What’s wrong, Ian? Lose your sense of humor?”
“I dislike the idea—” Raking both hands through his hair, he strode back to the living room.
She followed. “Of what?”
“Do you want to go out to dinner or order up?”
“Oh, I think the newlyweds should order up.” She turned on her heel and stalked to the couch. Finding a room service menu, she buried her nose in it and studiously ignored Ian.
“I suppose I owe you an explanation for all this.”
“I find all this,” she swept the suite with her arm, “extremely generous on your part. What do you want me to steal?”
“Steal?”
“Since I’m not working, I can’t give you money for my share of the rent on this palace. And any other form of payment is out of the question.”
“What the hell brought that on? Did I ask you to pay? Did I, in any way, suggest you should pay anything?” Scowling, he strode to her side then sat.
“Charles always says there’s no such thing as a freebie.”
“I am not Charles Cartierri!” he snapped.
“Thank God!” She glared at him, then lowered her lashes and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I guess that descent into Muzo frightened me more than I thought.” Forcing a smile, she added, “William was the daredevil in the family.”
“I am…sorry for your loss.”
“I’m not. William’s at peace. Finally.” She heard Ian’s deep sigh and said, “It’s complicated, Ian, and the memories are painful.”
“You must have loved him very much.”
“William was my best friend.” Seeing something akin to pain flit across Ian’s face, she took his hand and pressed it to her cheek. “William’s best friend was named Jerry.”
He curled his fingers around her cheek. She leaned into the caress and fought her tears. “William and I had a marriage of mutual protection. But, since William died and I failed again—this time to give Charles the male heir he wanted—all bets are off.” She shrugged off Ian’s hand, stood and paced away.
“Meaning Charles set you up as the only viable suspect in the theft of Isabella’s
Belt?”
“Meaning it’s a possibility. Meaning I can’t prove anything. Meaning my own stupidity got me into this mess. Meaning,” she said, turning to face Ian squarely, “I’ve said far too much already. I’m going to bed. I hope the couch isn’t too uncomfortable.”
“I shall manage.” Stopping her at the bedroom door, Ian added, “I still owe you an explanation for all this.”
Anger surging through her, she whirled to face him again. “I’ve confessed to stealing the Belt. Why don’t you just arrest me and get this over with?”
“Are you also confessing to murder?”
“Of course not! I told you before, I’ve never physically hurt anyone. What more do you want?”
“Whoever murdered those poor people.”
“Well I didn’t!”
“I know.”
Damian watched her eyes widen, lighten until they were the color of spring grass.
“You believe me?”
“Is that not what you wanted? Is that not why you tried to seduce me in the car this afternoon?” Crossing his arms over his chest, he grinned. Too late to recall it when she spun away.
“Go to hell, Ian Soria. And shove your explanation for all this up your arrogant— Just shove it!”
“If you want to get out of this mess, Tiffany darling, you have to trust somebody.”
“Well, it sure as hell won’t be you.”
To his surprise she closed the door with a quiet click, but the lock shot home like a thunderbolt.
He had used anger to drive her away. Anger, when all he wanted was to carry her into the bedroom, then lose himself in her silken warmth. Incapable of anger himself, he had poked at her until she had had no other choice but to lock herself away. If anger was what it took to keep his cock in check, he would use it. When it came to Tiffany, he would use anything to keep from wanting her.
Feeling as helpless as a newborn foal, Damian wandered the living room and finally arrived at the windows. Shoving aside the sheer inner drape, he looked out over a city filled with pinpoints of light, of hope. He had brought her here to keep her safe, to make her trust him and, yes, to make love to her. To make her love him.
With a fatalistic groan he admitted that what Tiffany had said was true. She would never trust him, but he knew someone she might.
Picking up the phone, he secured an outside line and dialed. “Nick? No, she did not buy it. Yeah, I think you should come over in the morning. No, I will not be here. Do not expect it to be easy.” As he hung up he added under his breath, “Even if she does trust you.”
* * * * *
“Why don’t you go home, hire yourself a good attorney and get this over with?” Nick Troy asked early the following morning. Lounging on the couch in her suite, his feet on the low glass table, a cup of steaming coffee in his hand, Nick looked relaxed and disgustingly well rested.
Having caught a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror, TC knew she looked like something not quite human. Her eyes were puffy from lack of sleep. Her lips sagged at the corners. Even her hair drooped. She felt like a Sharpei, all sad eyes and sagging skin.
“Well, why don’t you?” Nick prodded.
“Charles Cartierri’s daughter admit to being a thief? Heaven forbid! The scandal aside, I was a thief. More to the point, there’s enough evidence to make a case against me now.”
“Aren’t you overreacting? As far as I know, except for the video tape of you at the Luxembourg, there’s no evidence against you.”
Allowing Nick his deception—or was she protecting Ian by not telling Nick that she knew about Interpol’s false evidence against her—she said, “What about the murdered men? Wasn’t there any physical evidence on their bodies? No skin under their fingernails? No hair follicles?”
“You’re assuming they were in close proximity to their killer.”
“Yes. Even in the basement vault, the murderer wouldn’t risk the noise of a gun. Even with a silencer, he couldn’t chance the men falling and setting off an alarm. A knife is quieter, but blood—even a little—might get on the murderer’s hands or shoes, leaving prints. No, they had to be killed where the murderer could control them and the situation completely.”
“Hey, you’re pretty good at this.” Nick raised his cup as if making a toast to her.
Eschewing the obvious retort that she’d had a bit of experience, TC shrugged. “The papers didn’t say how they were killed.”
“And I’m not at liberty to say.” Nick put his feet on the floor and refilled his cup from the nearby carafe.
“If I had completed security in the museum, I’d have put infrareds throughout the building. At the very least, I’d have installed them in the rooms immediately surrounding the exhibit. Obviously, if the thief had tried to steal the Belt from the Luxembourg and got as far as the exhibit room, there’s a good chance he would escape even if the alarms went off. Especially—”
“What?”
“If he came in overhead to avoid the sensors altogether.”
“Tiffany—” He stood and began to pace.
“TC,” she automatically corrected.
“TC, could there have been two thieves—one to control each of the bank employees?”
Feeling a pang of guilt for shamelessly pumping him, she quieted her conscience. Nick’s guileless answers had raised too many new questions. Why, for instance, hadn’t Ian told Nick that she had taken Isabella’s Belt from the bank? Didn’t Ian trust his cohort? Or had Ian not heard her confession? Damn! If I have to summon the courage to confess again…
Through her lashes she peered at her companion and thought she might have developed an overly suspicious nature. With that open face, those innocent baby-blue eyes, Nick couldn’t lie any better than she could fly on her own willpower. Pursing her lips, she silently scoffed at herself. She’d read enough spy stories and mysteries to know that the person who looked the most innocent always turned out to be the villain.
Which probably meant that Charles Cartierri was pure as virgin snow.
“Yeah and pigs can fly.”
“Pardon?”
Seeing Nick’s confused and somewhat injured expression, she grinned. “Nick, you’re a genius!” she said and launched herself into his arms.
Her impetus propelled them onto the couch. Limbs entangled, they were laughing like school kids when a soft, deadly voice brought their merriment to an end.
“I hope I am not intruding at an inopportune moment,” Ian said as he crossed the room like a schoolyard bully spoiling for a fight.
TC lifted her chin as she stood. “It’s your suite. You’re free to come and go as you please.”
“Hey, you two,” Nick interrupted, “let’s not have a row. Tiff, why don’t you tell Ian what we just—”
“Later, Nick. Tiffany and I are going shopping.” Even with him standing loose-limbed, TC recognized the anger just under his civilized veneer.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Easy or hard, Tiffany, luv. It is up to you.”
Glaring up at Ian, she pursed her lips and tried to out stare him. “Oh, all right!” she snarled when he didn’t so much as blink. “Nick, please join us for dinner. Maybe by then the ogre will feel like celebrating with us.”
To her delight, Nick ignored Ian’s glare, bowed over her hand and took his leave with a devil-take-the-hindmost swagger in his stride.
“Lord, you’re a rude man,” she said to her brooding companion.
“How would you feel if you walked in and found me groping some blonde bimbo?”
Sensing Ian’s impatience to be off, she sauntered into the bedroom, freshened her makeup, then plaited her hair into a French braid, noting the need to cover her bald spot stitches.
“This isn’t worth discussing, but if I were Nick, I’d pick my friends more carefully,” she shouted as she assessed her looks in the mirror. Gone was the hangdog expression she had worn earlier. A battle light shone in her eyes and a smile of anticipation hovered around
her lips.
Going to the armoire, she selected a silk suit. Crimson in color, it accented the not unbecoming flush in her cheeks. Its simple cut hugged her body in all the right places and reeked of money to burn. So, Ian wanted to go shopping, did he? Well, she would show him how a life-in-the-fast-lane, former international jewel thief shopped. And if he didn’t feel as if he had assumed the national debt, she’d eat her Manolo Blahniks.
* * * * *
“Come on,” Ian urged several hours later, “it will be fun. You cannot come to Bogotá and not visit the gold museum.”
“Just don’t try recouping your losses in here,” TC warned, eyeing the mound of packages on the seat facing them in the long, sleek limousine. When he looked puzzled, she added, “Don’t steal anything.”
His hand over his heart, he said, “Ah, querida, how you wound me. I did not spend one peso more than I can afford.”
“Why, I wonder?”
“I am besotted with you, Tiffany, luv, but I am not a fool. Only a very foolish man spends more than he can afford solely to impress a woman. Besides, you needed some respite from your stress.”
Quirking an eyebrow at her stress, she said, “I meant, I wonder why you spent anything at all. My wardrobe is more than adequate. What are you up to, Ian?”
“Here we are. The Museo de Oro.”
He helped her out of the limousine, then gave the driver instructions to take their purchases to the hotel and return for them in an hour.
Gazing after the car, TC said, “I hope we haven’t seen the last of him.”
“What a distrusting little minx you are.”
“With good reason,” she muttered, following him into the museum, narrowing her eyes on his wide back when he sauntered in as if he owned the place and did not pay a peso to gain admittance.
Gold wasn’t her passion. In her design work, she used it only as a binding, an element to enhance the stones, the emeralds especially. Still, she dutifully followed Ian from room to room, pausing when he paused, muttering—appropriately, she hoped—when he stopped to admire some particular pieces, notably those depicting the legend of Eldorado and, in the Dorado Hall, the Quimbaya tribe collection.
“You seem unimpressed,” Ian said, catching her looking for an exit.